Harry Potter and the Immortal's Mexistache
by Rostand
Summary: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Voldemort, Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Sam Fugiwara, Hawkeye Pierce, Doug Penhall, and the Las Vegas crime lab get caught up the investigating of a strange rash of murders. Cowritten by Maddieandenise.


**Harry Potter and the Immortal's Mexistache**  
A Crackfic by Maddieandenise

**Authors' Note:** We're nerds. Like, big nerds. So one day after geeking out liek woah, Maddie says, "Hey, we should write a crossover between Harry Potter and Highlander." And Denise went, "Yeah, and we can also make it a crossover with CSI so we can make jokes about Nick's mexistache". So a while later, Maddie goes, "Um, Denise? Can we put Hawkeye in?" and Denise said, "OMGPENHALL." Her eyes went shifty and she added ". . . and we've got to have Sam!" "The guy from Quincey!" Maddie continued.

And that's the story of how Harry Potter and the Immortal's Mexistache was born. It's a crossover between Harry Potter, Highlander, and CSI, with a little bit of MASH, 21 Jump Street, and Quincy MD thrown in for good measure. Hope you enjoy.

". . . 'til death do you part?"

Methos' lips quirked up in a smile as the rhinestone-jumpsuited and pompadoured preacher intoned those words with a swivel to his hips. "I do."

"And do you, Duncan MacLeod . . ." the King squinted at his hastily-scrawled notes, "Of the Clan MacLeod, take this hunka hunka burnin' love to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, 'til death do you part?"

"Aye, I do," Duncan intoned, his accent coming back, thick with emotion and far too serious for the occasion.

Methos couldn't resist. His laughter, barely contained throughout the "service", bubbled to the surface. "MacLeod, we're being married by a bloody Elvis impersonator. Do you have to treat everything like a royal pronunciation from on high?"

"Shut up," Duncan growled, and, finally able to actually quiet the other man, kissed him. Hard. He had, after all, had quite a bit of practice.

"Uh, hey thar boys, I ain't done with the service," Elvis drawled.

"Sorry," Duncan murmured, not taking his eyes off the other man as they drew apart, a triumphant smirk firmly in place at the slightly dazed look in Methos' eyes.

"Quite alright," Elvis replied jovially. "Then by the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I declare you, uh, married. You may kiss the groom."

"My turn," Methos murmured, and dove in with delight, twining his arms around Duncan in a very possessive and slightly manic hold. Duncan responded by pulling Methos as tightly against him as he could manage without actually climbing inside his very attractively baggy sweater.

Three minutes and forty-seven seconds later, Elvis realised he probably wasn't going to get his tip. He simply bowed his head, murmured, "Elvis has left the building," and disappeared behind the ornate and very fake trellis. Seven minutes and twelve seconds later, Methos finally drew back, gasping a little for breath. Duncan could be very, very thorough when roused. So thorough, in fact, that even as the older Immortal drew back, Duncan simply moved his ministrations lower, nipping and kissing along the line of his jaw and neck. Methos resorted the simple yet painful expedient of wrapping Duncan's ponytail around his hand and tugging. Firmly.

"Ow!" Duncan reared back with a look of puppyish indignation which melted as soon as he looked into Methos' laughing face.

"Come on, lover boy, there's a queue forming," Methos muttered, stepping down the aisle towards the door where the faces of nervous and curious couples were beginning to poke in. "I can kiss it better for you once we're out of here."

"Tease," Duncan growled, but allowed himself to be led.

"I'm only a tease if I don't follow through," Methos shot back.

Duncan just laughed.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are . . ." the high, scratchy voice bounced off the close, grimy walls of the back alley, footsteps clicking loudly and sharply as the owner of the voice progressed. Grouched behind a convenient Dumpster, Harry rolled his eyes. Death Eaters always had had a flair for the dramatic. And because of said flair, he knew exactly where they were and they had no idea where he was. The clicking came closer and Harry shifted. Shadows here were confused from the conflicting light sources, even here in the dead of night; still, he could track the Death Eater and thus had a very good idea of where his target was when he exploded from his hiding place.

"_Stupefy!_"

The wizard had barely raised his wand when Harry's spell hit him, flinging him against the wall and knocking him out. Well, it knocked him out first and then he hit the wall, but the end result was the same. Harry conjured ropes out of midair and quickly tied him up, grunting as he flung the Death Eater – a good deal taller, but quite a bit leaner – over his shoulder, flicking his Invisibility Cloak over them both before staggering out of the alleyway into the bustling crowds. No one noticed that they were bumping into something that they could see, or that a shadow was being cast from nothing. The bright lights gleamed and flickered and spun and people laughed and pushed and cried.

It was Vegas, baby. Stranger things than a teenage wizard had happened.

Grissom crossed the parking lot towards the figure kneeling beside the body. "What do you got, David?"

The man looked up at him and Grissom stopped abruptly when it realised that it wasn't David. Unless David had lost about forty pounds and become Japanese. He stood with a smile, pulling off his gloves and offering a hand.

"Sorry, sir. Sam Fugiwara, coroner's assistant. David and I are participating in a departmental exchange, so you'll see me hanging around for the next few days."

"Gil Grissom, crime lab," he replied, shaking his hand. "Welcome to Vegas. Now, Sam, what can you tell me about the body?"

Sam looked back down, frowning, as Grissom crouched beside the body. "Well, liver temp indicates that he's been dead about three hours. Other than that, I can't tell you anything. No apparently cause of death, but that might change once I get him on the autopsy table."

"Thanks, Sam. You've released the body?"

"Just about to, sir." He nodded and moved back towards the coroner's van to finish his job.

"Yo, Gris, you just circle the city waiting for crime or what?" Warrick called as he crossed the cracked pavement of the dilapidated parking lot towards the crouched CSI, Greg on his heels.

"Yes, Warrick, I have no life outside of work," Grissom replied, completely deadpan, twisting his neck up to peer at the man as he stood over the sprawled body. "It's another one."

"Goosebumps?" Greg asked, circling them both to get a better look for himself.

"Greg, I wish you wouldn't pick up on those idiotic media appellations," Grissom sighed. "But yes, the Goosebumps Killer. No immediate cause of death, look of absolute terror on the face of the victim, and –"

"- this," Warrick said, snapping a picture before reaching down to retrieve the polished rod of wood with the ornate handle that lay a short distance away from the corpse's out-flung hand. "Same as all the others."

"Well, not exactly the same," Greg added, stepping over to look at the stick that Warrick was holding delicately up. "Every one of them's been different – lengths, type of wood, style of the handle, one even had –"

"Greg . . ." Grissom said warningly.

"Right, Boss. Working. I'll take the perimeter." He moved off, beginning to snap pictures and illuminating the darkened parking lot in irregular flashes.

"I'll sweep the lot," Warrick said, dropping the wood into an evidence bag and sealing it, tucking it away in his kit.

Grissom sighed as he crouched over the body. It was a puzzle. And he didn't like puzzles. At least not when they were ones he couldn't solve.

"MacLeod, I don't see why we have to do this."

Duncan looked over at his new "husband" and smiled his best Boy Scout smile. "It won't take a minute, and it's a Highland tradition. You can't forgo the traditions."

Methos sighed in exasperation. "And I suppose getting married in the most ridiculous place possible is another of your esteemed Highland traditions, hmm?" he said with a pointed look.

Duncan looked a bit sheepish, but he was determined to win this point. "C'mon, it's just one little drink, what will it hurt? We have to properly toast our nuptials or it'll be...bad luck."

"Bad luck, MacLeod? Are you serious? I've lived long enough to know that bad luck is simply a tale made up by the losers to explain why their lives are so miserable. Besides, I thought you wanted to celebrate our nuptials in a more . . . private way," he finished with a leer.

"My, aren't we in a rush? Well, I suppose we could go back to the room and maybe just get room service..." He paused mid-sentence as he felt the presence of another Immortal. He glanced around the crowded hotel bar. "Who is it?"

Methos made a similar cursory glance around as well. "The tall, solid looking one, wearing the flak jacket. It would probably be a good time to leave now."

"Methos," Duncan said in exasperation, "That wouldn't be polite. We should at least go find out his name."

"Send him a bloody gift basket then. Seriously, it says nowhere in the rules of the Game that we have to go up to every Immortal we come across, introduce ourselves, and then battle. That's the way to a quick end, MacLeod." Realising that he was loosing the point even as Duncan began moving away from him, he made a quick grab for the sleeve of his coat and pulled Duncan back towards him with a very distracting kiss, sliding one hand behind his back and plucking at his shirt. "Losing your head isn't on the agenda for the honeymoon," he growled in a low voice, his lips drifting over Duncan's as he spoke, then curling into a definite smirk. "At least not in that way, anyways." He leaned in for another kiss, ever-so-slightly pushing Duncan away with his body. "Forget about the other Immortal for a while."

"What other Immortal?" Duncan murmured playfully, wrapping his arms around Methos' waist and pulling him backwards into the elevator.

**TBC**


End file.
